“Dietz can be an asshole, but I can’t believe he’d indict you for murder because you wouldn’t go out with him.”

“There is something else,” Sarah said, and over the next quarter hour she filled Garrett in on the Elcock case. “When Loraine Cargo and Elcock passed their polygraph tests, Jack ordered Max to dismiss the case. He’s never forgiven me for going over his head and embarrassing him in front of his boss.”

Mary made careful notes about Elcock. Then she continued the interview for another half hour. When she had enough background information, she placed her pen on top of her legal pad.

“I think that’s enough for now. I want you to stay at a hotel in case the grand jury hands down an indictment. If you’re home, they might arrest you. I’ll make the reservation in my secretary’s name. I’ll call Max and let him know I’m your attorney. I’ll try to talk him into letting you surrender so we can avoid an arrest if he gets an indictment. That will also give me time to set up a bail hearing and you time to put some bail money together. I’ll need a list of witnesses who can vouch for your character, so I can convince the judge to grant bail. As you know, it’s not automatic in a murder case.”

“Do you think you can keep me out of jail?”

“From what you’ve told me, the case sounds thin. No body, no eyewitness. I think we’ve got a shot.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

People assumed that Mary Garrett led a lonely life because she was homely, unmarried, and had no children. They were in error. Mary had a close circle of loyal friends and her share of lovers. Those lovers were always glad that they had gotten beyond the superficial aspect of Garrett’s looks. There had even been proposals of marriage, but Garrett preferred to live alone and valued the freedom her choice provided. The lawyer thought of her clients as her children, and she poured the passion she would have given to a son or daughter into their defense. Each case was a cause, and she protected her charges with the ferocity that a lioness displays when her cubs are in danger.

Mary was concerned about her latest client, Sarah Woodruff. For the third time, she checked her stainless steel Franck Muller watch. Sarah was late. Outside, dark clouds were drifting over the high hills that towered over Portland, threatening rain. On the streets below, pedestrians clutched umbrellas and walked fast so they could reach their destinations quickly and gain shelter from the bitter wind.

Mary had rushed to the courthouse for an early appearance and had not had time to read the Oregonian. While she waited for her client to show up for their hastily scheduled meeting, she glanced through the paper. The Dow was down, the Seattle Seahawks had lost their starting tight end for the season with a torn ACL, the bodies of two men linked to a Mexican drug cartel had been found shot to death in a logging area in the Cascades, and another movie-star couple were breaking up even though they were “still good friends.” Mary sighed. Today’s paper was an echo of every paper she’d read this week.

Mary’s receptionist knocked on her door, then ushered in Sarah Woodruff. She looked pale and drawn, like someone who was not sleeping well, but the primary emotion Woodruff displayed was anger.

“They searched my condo,” she said. “They did it while I was at the station. There are clothes thrown around. They broke dishes. I bet that prick Dietz told them to trash my place.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Garrett answered, with an anger that almost matched her client’s. “I’ll straighten this out and make sure you’re treated with respect, if I have to get a court order.”

Woodruff dropped into a seat and ran a hand across her forehead. “I’m a fellow cop. If they’d asked, I would have let them search. I don’t have anything to hide.”

“That’s what I want to find out,” Mary said. She looked grim. Woodruff’s head snapped up. “Remember I told you that you had to be completely honest with me?”

“I have been.”

Mary pushed a copy of a police report across the desk. “This was written by Officer Dickinson after he interviewed you on the evening John Finley disappeared from your condo. Read it and tell me if you think Dickinson got anything wrong.”

Mary watched Woodruff as she read the report looking for any reaction that would tip her to whether Woodruff had lied during their interview. If it turned out she had, Mary would be disappointed, but she had been conned by clients before. After all, many of the people she represented made a living by bending the truth without being obvious. But she’d slowly become convinced that Sarah Woodruff was innocent.

The judge who’d granted Sarah bail had concluded that the State’s evidence didn’t meet the criteria for denying a defendant release in a murder case. The inability of the State to produce a body was the tipping point for Judge Edmond and a strong component of Mary’s argument for release. Max Dietz had been angry when he left the courtroom because he had lost, and Max hated to lose. But Mary sensed that Max had not laid down all of his cards during the bail hearing. A few sentences Mary had read in the stack of discovery her investigator had received from Dietz had reinforced that belief.

Woodruff looked confused when she finished reading the police report. “I don’t understand, Mary. What was I supposed to see?”

“You were carrying a Glock 9mm when you returned to your condo.”

“Yes. It’s my service weapon.”

“You told Officer Dickinson that you didn’t fire it.”

Woodruff’s features shifted for a second. Her brow furrowed. “I remember him asking about that. I don’t remember firing my weapon.”

“You didn’t say you didn’t remember firing the weapon. You said that you did not. There’s a big difference.”

“Mary, I’d just witnessed an attack on someone I knew. I’d been knocked unconscious. I’d been chasing around the neighborhood. My head was killing me. The doctor at the hospital said I’d suffered a concussion. I think I can be forgiven for being a bit inaccurate.”

“Let’s hope the jury thinks so.”

“Why are you so concerned?”

“For starters, there was a bullet missing from your gun. And do you remember a detective running a cotton swab over the web area between the thumb and forefinger of your hand to test for gunshot residue?”

“Vaguely. I wasn’t thinking very straight. Are you saying they found residue on my hands?”

Mary nodded. “They can prove you fired your weapon.”

Woodruff put her hands on her temples. She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, she looked panicky.

“I don’t remember firing the gun. Wouldn’t I remember something like that if I’d done it?”

The grilling had been a test, and Mary thought her client had passed.

“Maybe not,” she said. “After my investigator found out about the inconsistency, she talked to the doctor who treated you at the hospital. He’s certain that you suffered a concussion, a traumatic injury to the brain as a result of a violent blow.

“A blow powerful enough to knock you out can cause your brain cells to become depolarized and fire all of their neurotransmitters at once. This floods the brain with chemicals and deadens the receptors in the brain that are associated with learning and memory. The upshot of all this is that a person who suffers a concussion can experience unconsciousness, blurred vision, and nausea and vomiting.”

“I had all of that happen,” Woodruff said.

Mary nodded. “Another consequence of a concussion is short-term memory loss. Memories of things that happen just before and after the impact are obliterated. Some people even have difficulty remembering certain phases of their life. The memory loss is usually not permanent, but it could account for your statement to Dickinson.”

“It has to, because I’ve never lied about what happened at my place. I didn’t kill John, and he was kidnapped.”